


Freak of Nature

by oisiflaneur



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mutation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisiflaneur/pseuds/oisiflaneur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's different. His mouth is different, his lips a jagged slash across his face. The veins under his skin are darker than usual, standing out from his dusky skin with sharp green contrast. </p><p>You'd never noticed before, but if you had to find a word to describe his hair, it'd be 'mossy'.</p><p>That turns out to be just the start.</p><p>ABANDONED -- lost the notes for the rest of it and therefore the motivation, sorry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freak of Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Saw a whole bunch of really good Terra!Mike art floating around, so it was only a matter of time before I wrote this. It's basically what'd happen if I wrote an episode. Content warning for forced transformation and body horror, though this installment is fairly tame.

It's past midnight when you finally find him. Burnt out, dumped by the side of the road, his feet hanging limply in the ditch. Texas grabs him and slaps him, back and forth, demanding that he wake up. As Dutch pulls him off, you and Julie pull him into 9 Lives, both the sets of knuckles on his jacket white and bloodless. The two of you are the only ones who see the note tucked into his back pocket.

  
`a mile in our shoes`  


You crumpled it wordlessly and toss it in the back seat. Julie doesn't object.

* * *

It takes a few hours before the changes start to become obvious. Which means that none of you notice until _after_ Mike's assured you all ( _ad nauseum_ ) that he's fine, really, stop it, guys I'm _fine_ , cut it out! He doesn't even notice until Dutch points it out.

"Dude, what's up with your _teeth?_ "

There's a mad scramble for the bathroom mirror, all five pairs of feet stampeding down the hallway. "Guys, there's a mirror in the kitchen--" Julie tries to inform you all, only to be drowned out by a collective gasp. 

He's different. His mouth is different, his lips a jagged slash across his face. The veins under his skin are darker than usual, standing out from his dusky skin with sharp green contrast. 

You'd never noticed before, but if you had to find a word to describe his hair, it'd be 'mossy'.

That turns out to be just the start.

* * *

It's day four, and you're scrabbling through piles of junk to try and find an acceptable mask. You keep a sharp lookout for the gasmasks the Terrarists use, trying to find something with the right sort of filter. Dutch had caught the Look you and Julie shared, and given you one of his own: capital L and all. You've all figured it out in a matter of seconds; this was Kaia's doing. It hadn't exactly been detective work, when Mike told you the last face he remembered before he woke up by the side of the highway.

And if that hadn't been enough, Mike's new third eye would have probably given it away.

Texas calls the rest of you over, waving a tattered old mask: the foamy, bulbous kind once seen in hospitals, or on Japanese railways. " _Told ya_ I'd find one first. Okay, what's my prize?"

The rest of you look at each other, and Dutch just sighs. He ends up lending Mike his painting gear: the heavy duty stuff, with the chemical filters. 

Indefinitely.

* * *

That's the word that scares you here: Indefinitely. You keep hearing it: when Dutch hands over his handkerchief, when Jacob _tsks_ and pushes Mike's bangs back to get a look at his forehead, when Julie plucks the skull right out of his palm and informs him he won't be driving for the next little while.

No one seems to be talking about a _definitely_.

You sigh, when you think no one else can hear, and carry on with your research.

None of your usual sources are giving you anything. You've spent every night of the last week the same way: lurking in dead forums and chasing down dead leads. You've ended every night for the last week of the last week the same way: passing out on your mattress at five a.m., feeling exhausted and helpless.

There's only one person to talk to, and you all know it. By week two (and a half, but who's counting?), you've come to a strange sort of silent agreement. You climb into 9 Lives' passenger seat awkwardly, adjusting the seat for the long bent stretch of your legs. You almost mumble something about how you never felt crammed into Mutt like this, but wisely bite your tongue when you see the look on Julie's face.

* * *

Kaia just laughs at the four of you, standing outside your cars with a dozen superspore arrows pointed at your throats. "You think I have a cure?" She cackles, and removes her mask with a hiss. "Tell me, Burners. You think I look like this because I _want_ to?" 

You're not ashamed to say that your knees quake when she rises to a stand, holding the gas mask in front of her with an outstretched arm. "If a cure was so simple, you really think that I wouldn't use it on myself -- on _my people_ \-- first? You think that we'd still be like this while your _friend_ tries to ride out the early stages?"

All of you startle when she spits at Texas' feet, all two of her visible eyes narrowed. "Kane's poisons are slowly killing us. And now, they're slowly killing Mike Chilton, as well." Without breaking eye contact with you, she reaches back behind her neck again, tying the mask over her jaws.

"Tell me, _Texas._ Do you still want one of our "cool masks"?"

You leave without answers. But, you tell yourself, at least now you've got a proper mask for him.

* * *

At least he's functional now, you tell yourself. He can breathe Motorcity's air, he can live like a normal human being. The mask made all the difference in that respect, letting him spend more than a few minutes without feeling like he's fighting for breath. It lets him act like his old self, waving his hands, and giving speeches, and generally saving all of your butts about five times a day.

But his voice has that hollow echo to it, and he won't take the mask off in public. Not even to eat. The flange throws you all for a loop at first, but most of you shake it off by the end of week four.

By 'most of you', of course, you mean 'Texas'. You still catch Dutch jolting upright at the sound, still catch Julie's face darkening with worry every time Mike's back is turned.

As for you? For the most part, you just gamely pretend that nothing is wrong. 

You've gotten good at that.

* * *

"It's not contagious." You inform them, propped up behind three different computer screens. This is the closest you come to feeling at home, nowadays, and you'll take your comforts where you can get them. Besides, it seems to give you an air of authority. Texas still doesn't understand anything more complicated than email, so your sort of software tinkering looks like magic to him. 

"This sort of mutation is endemic to the Terrarist's home turf -- look, see?" You've pulled up a map, placed your fingertips at the center of their territory. Terratory, you think briefly.

"You mean their Terratory." Mike mumbles, the handful of syllables echoing through his mask. You can't help but shoot him a grin; if he's making jokes, that means he's in a better mood today, even if the jokes are awful. 

You cough into your fist, and press an index finger against a rotating helix in the corner. "But, y'see? It's not a _disease_ , it's a mutation. It directly attacks the biological makeup of the subject, which is why it has to be administered in such concentrated doses! It can't be transmitted, unless it's like... a direct blood transfusion, _maybe_ , but other than that--"

Stammering to a halt in the middle of a sentence isn't new for you. No one thinks twice when you roll to a stop, staring at the wall above their heads. They assume that it's just your way of dealing with public speaking (again). 

No one notices Mike slipping out the back door, scowling.

* * *

"I'm quitting the Burners."

For a moment, you can't say anything in response to that. You just stare at him, stare at what you can see of his eyes -- between his bangs and the mask, you only have a fraction of his face to read. But even with that, you can read his determination, and his hopelessness.

"Chuck?"

It takes you another moment to get your mental feet under you, to turn to him and bite your lip instead of throwing your arms over your head and screaming with the futility of it all. "Why?" Is all you manage to croak, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. Not that he can tell, with your hair in your eyes, but you can see him slatted between the strands of your bangs.

He runs a thumb over the round filter of his mask, and looks at you with something that you imagine is sadness. "Because I don't belong here anymore."

You're frozen, paralysed, you feel like time's crawled to a stop. He scratches at the back of his head, clearly embarrassed by his own sincerity; since when was _that_ something that embarrassed Mike? 

"Anyway, listen. I..." 

You take a faltering step forward, reaching for him, but he pulls away and out of arm's reach. "Listen..." Mike starts, but for the first time you can ever remember, he doesn't seem to have anything to say. 

He ducks past you and out of the room before you can respond. 

Alone in the garage now, you turn around and sink onto a workbench, dazedly. In the dim glow of Motorcity's perpetual dusk, you sit with your head in your hands, and wonder what to do. Usually, you'd ask yourself what Mike would do.

Somehow, you don't think that's going to work this time.


End file.
